


Return (compare to chapter 11 in full version, also titled "Return")

by I_am_lampy



Series: The "It's All Fine" Collected Works Deluxe Edition [11]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Aftermath of Torture, Canon Divergence - The Empty Hearse, Conflicted John, Established Relationship, Heavy Angst, M/M, PTSD Sherlock, Possibly Unrequited Love, Rape Aftermath, Relationship Issues, Sherlock Holmes Returns after Reichenbach
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-04
Updated: 2017-07-04
Packaged: 2018-11-19 10:19:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,053
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11311344
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/I_am_lampy/pseuds/I_am_lampy
Summary: Sherlock counts to ten, then picks up his small duffel bag, gets out of the car and makes his way slowly across the street to the familiar door to 221B.





	Return (compare to chapter 11 in full version, also titled "Return")

**Thursday, March 21, 2013**

**London**

It's six in the evening, and the sun has set but it's not quite full dark. Sherlock is sitting in the back of a sleek, black car, waiting for John's boyfriend to leave so Sherlock can finally go home. At half six, Sherlock watches him step out onto the pavement and waits until he walks off in the direction of the tube station.

Sherlock counts to ten, then picks up his small duffel bag, gets out of the car and makes his way slowly across the street to the familiar door of 221B. He's beginning to move a bit easier now that he's back in London, as though the city is infusing him with life.

The door is unlocked; inside he sets his bag down so that he can hang up his coat. Inside the bag is the file from the embassy infirmary detailing his injuries and giving instructions for their care and a few pairs of pajama bottoms, t-shirts, and socks—brand new but washed—that Mycroft had the foresight to bring to the embassy infirmary with him.

He picks his bag up and walks very slowly up the stairs, avoiding all the creaky bits so that his ascent is silent. He opens the sitting room door and peeks inside, suddenly terrified.

John is sitting in his chair, and his chest is bare. At first, Sherlock thinks he's naked and an image of him and the boyfriend together pierces his chest, but then John stands, his mouth opening in shock, his tea mug clattering to the carpet, spilling but not breaking.

"John," Sherlock says, his voice still broken despite the days of recovery in Belgrade, or maybe it's just John finally here in front of him. He clears his throat and tries again. "John."

John says nothing, only stares, openmouthed. For a moment neither of them moves. Then John inches his way around his chair and into the kitchen, keeping his wide eyes on Sherlock as he does.

Sherlock hurries after John and finds him in Sherlock's bedroom, but the room has changed. Sherlock doesn't bother to catalogue the changes. His eyes are only for John, who's yanking open a drawer and pulling on a t-shirt.

"John, I'm sorry, I had to leave. Moriarty had a sniper on you and he would've shot you if they didn't see me jump. Then Moriarty killed himself—"

“Sherlock, you bloody, lying bastard! I saw you fall—you _made me_ watch you die!” John shouts angrily. He takes a deep breath. “God, I fucking missed you. Come here you shithead, you owe me a hug. I'm sending you my therapy bills, too.”

John makes his way towards Sherlock, his arms outstretched. Sherlock wants to return the hug but, unfortunately, this is the first time Sherlock has been outside the clearly demarcated boundaries of the infirmary or his brother's presence. Sherlock's threat assessment system is blaring and screaming at him to _make yourself small keep eyes on the threat down now_ and Sherlock, who has been waiting for this moment for almost six hundred days, drops into a crouch and clasps his hands over his head.

"Sherlock?"

"Sorry, gimme a minute, just a minute, oh, god, I'm sorry, just need a, a minute, just, whew," Sherlock mutters, trying not to hyperventilate.

Sherlock feels John move to the bedside table and click on the lamp. He knows it's a lamp and it means light and that he should open his eyes, but he can't yet.

_Stupid brain, why are you doing this? It's just John! John is good. Stand up. Say, hello. It's good to see you, John. You're more beautiful than I remembered. I've missed you. Stupid brain! Stand up! Goddammit! You're. Fucking. This. Up._

"Sherlock," John says in a calm voice.

Sherlock remembers, _oh, yes, good John, beautiful John_ is a sufferer of PTSD himself so this won't be completely unfamiliar to him.

"I'm standing near the window, Sherlock. Look at me. I'll wait."

_(Yes, exactly, that's what John does, he waits, he waits for me to come home and I've curled into a ball on my bedroom floor—no his bedroom floor, he changed it, why change it? Convenience? No. Not any more convenient than his room, just less steps up. Besides, very inconvenient to move my shit out and his in. Larger? No, the upstairs room is larger. Same wardrobe, same setee, same dresser, same lamps, same tables, same backlit curio shelf, different bed. Why only the bed? Kept everything but the bed. Sleep in a bed, have sex in a bed, he has sex in a new bed, but everything's the same because? Because why?)_

_(Sentiment.)_

"You moved into my bedroom," Sherlock chokes out.

"I did," John says.

His voice is neutral, calm. Sherlock can imagine him leaning against the wall near the window, his arse the only thing connecting him to the wall. Arms crossed. Legs crossed at the ankle. Relaxed.

"Can I come sit next to you?" John asks.

There's just a hint of desperation in his voice. Nobody but Sherlock ( _maybe the boyfriend, no, don't think about him_ ) would catch. John's a doctor, of course, so he wants to do something to fix it.

"You can't fix me," Sherlock mutters.

"I can treat your injuries. If you'll let me. I can see that you're injured, Sherlock."

His voice is: amenable, conversational. He speaks slowly, enunciating each syllable so there's no room for misinterpretation of his tone of voice. He's saying _I'm safe, let me near you_.

"Sorry," Sherlock whispers again.

"Please don't say that," John says, a hitch in his breath.

Sherlock opens his eyes. He stares at the familiar hardwood floors in his bedroom ( _no, John's_ ) bedroom. Now he's embarrassed, but John ( _so much more observant than you gave him credit for_ ) knows he's opened his eyes.

"Let me just sit on the floor near you. Not next to you. I won't touch you."

There's no hiding the tears in John's voice now. ( _I've broken him_.)

Sherlock lifts his head and sees John crouched underneath the window, swiping tears off his face, but the tears keep coming and coming, dripping down his face, huge fat tears, yet John is _smiling_ . He smiles at Sherlock and laughs, gestures at his face. _Can you believe this shit? I'm crying like a fucking baby!_ Sherlock tries to smile back.

"I really want to hug you," John whispers.

Sherlock starts to nod. John's smile is making him smile, too, even though they're both smiling rather weakly. Slowly, John moves and when he's about two feet away, he holds out his hand. Sherlock reaches for it and John steps closer to help him up. John uses the hand he's gripping to pull Sherlock into a hug, and Sherlock's not fast enough to stop it.

"My back!" Sherlock cries out, hissing and ducking away from John's arms, which just pushes him _into_ John and they both stumble into the wardrobe.

"God, I'm sorry, Sherlock, I wasn't thinking," John says. "Let me look at you. Wait, let's go into the kitchen. I need to get a good look at you."

In the kitchen, he flips on the light, and it's the first time he's really seen Sherlock since he came in not more than ten minutes ago. The light in the bedroom is dim and Sherlock was crouched most of the time.

"Oh, Sherlock," John breathes. He swallows and clears his throat. "Has anyone—have you been looked at?"

"Yes, at the, um, embassy. The doctors reports, they're in my bag," Sherlock says and points over his shoulder towards the sitting room. He turns to go and get it, but John stops him.

"I'll get it, sit down, sit down. I'll put the kettle on. God, listen to me. I'm every fucking British mum ever. _I'll put the kettle on, dear_ . Oh, fuck, does Mrs. Hudson know you're alive? Does _Mycroft_ know?" John asks, his voice trailing off into the other room.

"Mycroft helped me plan the—you know, whole. Fake death. Thing," Sherlock finishes lamely.

From the sitting room, John shouts, "I'm going to fucking _kill_ that bastard!"

John comes into the kitchen, carrying Sherlock's black duffel bag like it only weighs a pound. It felt so heavy on Sherlock's shoulder, but Sherlock is malnourished despite his five days of being force fed by Mycroft.

"Mycroft _knew_ this was happening to you?" John asks, gesturing at Sherlock.

Sherlock finds himself in the unique position of defending his older brother.

"He got me out as soon as he could."

"Yeah, well, it wasn't fucking soon enough, was it? You look like a refugee, Sherlock! Like pictures of concentration camp survivors in World War Two! What do you weigh, have they weighed you? I wouldn't put you at more than a hundred and forty pounds! You're at least twenty pounds underweight!"

John begins to list all the things that are wrong with Sherlock, so Sherlock puts up a hand to stop him.

"It's in my bag. The file."

"What file?" John asks, staring at the duffel like it holds the mysteries of the universe.

"From the embassy infirmary. I've been in the British embassy, in the infirmary, for the last five days."

" _Which_ British embassy, Sherlock?"

"Oh, sorry. Yes. Uh, Belgrade. Serbia."

"Okay, look. I've got about a thousand questions. Right now, though, all I care about is—one, that you're home, and two, that you let me look at you."

Sherlock nods, though he doesn't want to. The only reason Mycroft let him come home, though, is because he promised he would give John all the information on his treatment.

"In the bag, there's a folder with the brief that details my injuries. There's medicine and bandages in there as well."

"Okay. Sit there. Don't move."

John points at one of the kitchen chairs and Sherlock does as he's told. He winces when he sits down, though, because he's got three stitches in his arse and sixty-three on his back and three broken and two cracked ribs.

John finds the appropriate file and puts it on the table. He starts pulling things out. Sherlock's t-shirts and pajama bottoms, he pulls out and lays on the other chair. John handles Sherlock's clothes like they're precious things, carrying them over to the other chair, setting them down and giving them a little pat. Something in Sherlock's chest starts to loosen. Then John takes out the boxes and tubes of medicines prescribed by the doctors at the embassy.

"I'm gonna make tea and get my kit. Don't move. Seriously, Sherlock, do not even get up from that chair, are we clear?"

Sherlock nods. He will not get up from this chair. He's not sure he can. John comes back into the kitchen holding a bundle of blue silk and carrying his desert camouflage med kit with the big red cross on it. He sets both down on the table near Sherlock. John takes the kettle, fills it with water, puts it on the heating coil and clicks it on.

A pad of paper and a pencil come out of nowhere and John leans against the sink and looks at Sherlock. He's not looking at _Sherlock_ , though (and Sherlock knows this). He's looking at Sherlock's _body_. John is reading him the way Sherlock used to read crime scenes.

"Were you beaten?" John asks abruptly.

"The brief will—"

"Sod the brief, Sherlock. I'd be a shit doctor if let a piece of paper tell me what's wrong with you. So, were you beaten?"

"Yes," Sherlock says, staring at his shaking hands.

"What were you beaten with?"

"A belt."

"On your back?"

"Yes."

"Are there any lacerations or welts that need to be treated?"

"I have four deep lacerations on my back and a dozen smaller ones."

"Stitches?"

"Sixty-three in total."

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock," John says, putting down his notebook and rubbing his hands over his face. "Why aren't you in hospital?"

"I, well—I begged Mycroft to let me come home and he said I could only if you took responsibility for my treatment."

"You let me think you were dead for _eighteen months_ and then you come back here less than a _week_ after being rescued from torture and you made a promise on my behalf to be responsible for your treatment?"

Sherlock raises one shoulder in an almost-shrug, but then doesn't.

"I didn't—I didn't consider it in that light. I just wanted to come home. If you're not comfortable—"

"Shut up, just. Stop talking," John says, glaring at him.

John looks at Sherlock then at the floor, his jaw working. John has always been so easy to read, and not just for Sherlock. John's face expresses how he feels, even when he thinks he's hiding. Sherlock has dozens and dozens of pictures in his mind palace of what each lift of John's eyebrow or quirk of his lips means.

Finally, John crosses his arms and bends forward slightly, looking straight into Sherlock's eyes.

"If I'm going to be responsible for your treatment, then we need to set down some rules."

"Okay," Sherlock says, not realizing he'd been holding his breath until he speaks.

"First rule. You don't hide any pain or injuries from me. That means, you answer all my questions honestly. I'm going to examine you from top to bottom and I'll take notes, but I need you to be totally transparent with me."

Sherlock keeps nodding, looking as earnest as he can because, yes, _yes_ , obviously, anything John asks of him, he'll do it because he doesn't want to be anywhere but right here.

"Second rule. If you feel pain somewhere you didn't before, if there's inflammation or swelling somewhere new, if something isn't starting to feel better when you know it should, tell me.

"Third rule. You take every pill I prescribe you, including pain medication. You will not try to tough it out. I can see when you're in pain, Sherlock, even when it's minor. You're not the only one who can observe things."

"I know that."

"Yeah, well, don't hide anything from me. I'll go over the list of medications they prescribed and if I think you should take them, you will. Anything else I think you need to take, I'll prescribe myself."

"Of course," Sherlock says, nodding. His head is going to fall off his neck if he nods anymore.

"Last rule. I'm not just responsible for your injuries, I'm responsible for your health. Do you understand the difference? Don't roll your eyes at me. That means you eat when I tell you to eat, and you sleep when I tell you to sleep, and if I say I have to stand in the bathroom and watch you take a piss because I want to make sure it's coming out the right way, then that's what I'm going to do."

"Fine," Sherlock says through gritted teeth. "You do realize that you're saying the same thing a dozen different ways, right?"

"You want to hear me out or do you want to go to hospital? I work at the Royal London, I can have you admitted."

"When did you start working there?"

"Last year. It's not important—we can catch up later. If you break any rules, you'll get a firsthand tour of where I work, because I _will_ have you admitted."

"I don't have any injuries that would require a hospital stay, John."

John holds his gaze, his nostrils flaring. Then he blinks a few times and looks down at his hands. John's hands, Sherlock notes, are steady.

"You're back and I _need_ —you can't lie to me anymore. This, _this_ , I can do." He gestures towards Sherlock. "I can make you healthy, keep you that way, but I can't do it if you won't let me."

"I know," Sherlock says quietly.

John opens his mouth to say something, shakes his head slowly once, twice, then picks up his notebook and pen and writes something in it.

"Okay, sixty-three stitches. I'll look at them when I do my physical exam. Internal injuries?"

"Bruised right kidney."

"Any blood in your urine?"

“It was clear by yesterday afternoon.”

“Other internal injuries?”

“Nothing major.”

"Define _major_ ," John says flatly, giving Sherlock a pointed look.

"Bruising, but no internal bleeding. The rest of my organs are working and intact."

"Any broken bones?"

"Three broken ribs on the right side. Two cracked on the left."

“Only three?” John mutters, writing it down.

“You'd rather I have more?” Sherlock asks, but without any heat.

“I'd rather you have none. Which ones?"

"Fourth, fifth, and sixth on the right. On the left, fifth and sixth."

"What about your wrist?” John asks, nodding at the wrapping on Sherlock's right wrist.

“Sprained.”

“Any other broken bones or sprains?”

“Hairline fracture in my left elbow.”

"This shoulder," John says, pointing at his left shoulder. "Dislocated?"

"Yes."

"Anything else I need to know about before I do my exam?"

"A fungal infection on my skin, mostly over my chest and legs. I was treated for head and pubic lice."

John makes a note and then he puts the pad and pen aside. He crosses his arms.

"Is that everything?"

"Yes," Sherlock lies, exhaustion pulling at his body and his mind.

Sherlock has spent the last ten minutes rapidly coming to the conclusion that if he tells John he was raped then it will be months, many long months, before Sherlock could convince John he was well enough, emotionally and physically, for a sexual relationship. In fact, John would probably require a signed affidavit from a trained professional in rape recovery stating Sherlock was sufficiently over his trauma to give informed consent before he did so much as touch Sherlock.

And while Sherlock wasted those months trying to convince John he knew what he wanted, John's relationship with his boyfriend would be gaining more and more traction, making it harder and less likely Sherlock would get what he wanted. So Sherlock decides to lie. Well, he's just not going to tell _all_ the truth.

“Sherlock, look at me,” John says.

Sherlock raises his eyes to John's face.

“Is there anything you're not telling me? I know that prisoners are sometimes subjected to, um, you know—sexual assault in places like that.”

“One guard forced oral sex on me twice but no physical damage,” Sherlock says, which is true.

“Did he, um, ejaculate into your, your mouth?”

“Gratefully, no,” Sherlock says. The reply has the added bonus of being true.

“Did they test you for STIs?”

“Yes, but I will have to be tested again, obviously.”

“But there was no, um—”

“Disease free but, as I said, I'll need to be tested again.”

“I'll draw your blood once a month and take it to the hospital lab.”

John takes a deep breath and then begins ticking off Sherlock’s injuries. "So, lacerations on your back due to beating with a belt. Bruised kidney. Internal abdominal bruising. Broken and cracked ribs. Hairline fracture to the left elbow. Sprained right wrist. Dislocated left shoulder. Fungal skin infection."

Sherlock watches as John—miraculously, unbelievably—breaks into a grin. And then comes the affectionate but exasperated shake of his head. _See what happens when you run off without me?_ John lays his hand gently on Sherlock's arm and then the tips of his fingers slide rhythmically up and down the tender skin on the inside of Sherlock's forearm. Sherlock's dick starts to react and Sherlock bites back a groan of frustration. He turns himself slightly so John can't see.

Then he does something Sherlock never expected, not even in his sweetest dreams. John takes Sherlock's hand, wraps it in both of his, and then brings it up to his lips and kisses the back of Sherlock's knuckles before gently letting go.

"I missed you so much," John whispers brokenly and then gathers himself and smiles. "Let's get you some tea before you have to submit to me poking around your body and griping about the inferior quality of doctors found in Belgrade."

~*~

After John makes them tea, he only lets Sherlock drink half before he tells him to stand up and helps Sherlock get undressed. He pulls the cuffs of the long sleeve t-shirt off first, so that only Sherlock's head sticks out. And then he pinches the collar and pulls it off in one easy go.

Sherlock can hear the sharp intake of breath behind him. John comes around to the front. He's blinking quickly, trying to master his emotions. Sherlock's heart swells with love for him.

"Here," John says, but his voice breaks. He clears his throat. Picks up Sherlock's dressing gown. Shakes it out. "Here, put this on before I get your bottoms off, too."

Sherlock slips his arms in and John belts it loosely. He steps back a bit and bends at the waist, pushes Sherlock's dressing gown aside, hooks his fingers inside Sherlock's fleece bottoms and pants both, and gently slides them down. He keeps his eyes focused on the clothes and not Sherlock's body, which is good, because Sherlock's dick has decided to show its love and appreciation for the one hundred and sixty-nine centimeters of former army doctor currently crouched at Sherlock's feet.

It gets harder as Sherlock watches it and he wants to shut his dressing gown, but one hand is on John's shoulder and the other clutches the back of the chair. Sherlock quickly decides John witnessing his erection is worse than falling, so he grabs both edges of the open front of his dressing gown, and grips them together in his hands, one hand above his waist and the other at crotch level.

Because this is quickly turning into slapstick, of course, first John gets trapped inside the confines of Sherlock's dressing gown, and when he smacks it out of the way, laughing, Sherlock, who isn't steadying himself anymore, loses balance as he steps out of his bottoms and John grabs Sherlock's hips to steady him right as Sherlock grabs for John's shoulder, letting go of his dressing gown to do so. Sherlock's dick, no longer hidden behind blue silk, reaches out lovingly towards John.

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbles, and tries to wrap himself back up, but his erection pokes out anyway, trying to communicate its love to John.

“Uh,” John says, still holding onto Sherlock's hips.

He seems transfixed by Sherlock's penis, who returns the feelings with a happy little twitch. John's fingers dig into Sherlock's skin. John pushes himself abruptly to his feet.

“You're exhausted, your body's confused,” John says, blushing furiously and avoiding Sherlock's face. “It'll go away once I start the exams.”

But it doesn't go away.

John eases the dressing gown off Sherlock's shoulders and has him hold it around his waist. Sherlock feels John's body heat behind him and his nerves draw taut in anticipation.

"This is coming off," John says, his fingers tracing the tape around his ribs. "I'll give you dihydrocodeinone for the pain, but I'm not having you get pneumonia because you can't take a deep breath ‘cause of the goddamn wrappings."

Then John's fingers move over Sherlock's back, his touch feather light. Sherlock can hear him breathing, imagines he can feel John's hot and humid breath whispering over his skin. He begs his body to stop reacting to John's nearness, but it won't. John peels the scratchy tape from around Sherlock's body. It's supposed to only stick to itself, but it feels like it's pulling all his stitches out as it comes unwound.

"When was the last time you took something for the pain, Sherlock?" John asks.

Sherlock opens his eyes to find his cock poking out of the seam of his dressing gown, staring him in the face and John standing off to the side looking slightly embarrassed, but determined to remain professional.

"Uh, this morning," Sherlock says.

"You idiot," John says, sounding frustrated. “See, this is the kind of shit you always pull! Just. Sorry. I'm sorry for yelling. Here, let me get—”

John trails off and Sherlock is silent while he turns and fetches a glass of water and pulls a blister pack of dihydrocodeinone out of his kit. He pushes two out through the foil backing and drops them in Sherlock's hand.

"Take those, now," John says.

Sherlock looks at the pills and then down at his body where he's clutching the blue silk tightly around his waist. His erection hasn't gone down yet and Sherlock hastily covers it with one hand and uses the other to keep his dressing gown around his waist. He looks helplessly at John.

"Sherlock, do you want to—I mean, it's clearly determined to, um—it might help you relax if you want to go take care of that and then come back," John asks, his face flushing so beautifully pink.

"No."

"Look, I know that, before you died--fake died, whatever-- we didn't talk about our pers--”

"It's you," Sherlock blurts out.

John tilts his head and furrows his brow. "Me?"

"Your nearness."

"Huh," John says, his face unreadable. He blinks his eyes a few times, tilts his head, then opens his mouth to say something.

“I mean, it’s, uh, been awhile since, uh,” Sherlock says, cutting him off. “Since the last time I had, you know, sex.”

Sherlock winces at his fumbling delivery.

“So you're not a virgin?” John asks with puerile glee.

“John, I'm thirty-seven years old,”  Sherlock says with a roll of his eyes.

“Right, right,” John murmurs, nodding his head. “So then, it’s men you, uh, fancy?”

“Yes,” Sherlock says and gestures to his persistent erection. “Obviously.”

Sherlock waits, but nothing else is forthcoming and he feels himself wilting in embarrassment underneath John's stare.

"Sorry," Sherlock mutters at last.

"No, it’s just—but it's not _me_ you're, um, attract--I mean it's just ‘cause I'm a man?”

_It's you, John, god yes, it's always you, it's always been you._

Sherlock swallows, and opens his mouth to say it, but John cuts him off.

“It's fine. I'm sure it'll go away as I examine you," John says, with a slight frown. “Here. Open your mouth. I'll drop the pills in and then hold the glass so you can drink.”

Sherlock obediently opens his mouth and drinks. Because Sherlock is half a foot taller than John, the angle John holds the glass at is inexact. As a result, some water escapes between the glass and the corners of Sherlock's lips and the water travels over Sherlock's chin and then down his neck to his chest.

John watches the path of the water with open mouthed lasciviousness, his pupils dilating so quickly he has to squint against the light. Sherlock checks John's crotch and is delighted to find John has a little erection of his own happening down there. (Not that it's _little_ , just that he's obviously not as erect as Sherlock is, though _damn_ Sherlock would love to see John's prick fully erect. Preferably fully erect because of Sherlock.)

Sherlock has known John is attracted to him almost since the moment John himself figured it out. At the time, Sherlock thought they would have time to explore their relationship but after Moriarty’s trial he and John never slowed down enough to have the chance to even acknowledge the mutual attraction and then--and then Sherlock died and John found someone to replace him.

Although it would _appear_ that John has remained attracted to Sherlock despite the fake death and subsequent boyfriend, and that is at least a point in Sherlock's favor.

As John examines and treats his back and the pain meds take effect, Sherlock's erection gradually falters and then recedes and Sherlock breathes a huge sigh of relief. Sherlock lets himself relax into John's care and responds to John's various commands without much thought.

"I'm going to clean the shallow cuts on your back now," John murmurs.

When John dabs the betadine on his cuts, Sherlock hisses and instinctively twists away. John holds him in place with a gentle but firm hand and begins murmuring a litany of soothing words and Sherlock almost relaxes into John’s touch. After a while, the stinging pain of each individual cut – ironically, worse than the original lashes – disappears into one sheet of pain, like a choir of individual voices reaching the crescendo and holding one note together.

Next, John gently pulls off the bandages on the major wounds on his back. The worst ones are in the meat of his shoulders. John cleans them and then he smears them with antibacterial ointment and bandages them back up.

After treating each set of injuries, John changes his nitrile gloves. He also keeps scrupulous notes, raising his head to look at the ceiling, his tongue stroking his bottom lip as he thinks of what to write. Sherlock has to avert his eyes because he finds the gesture painfully erotic and he's only just gotten his body back under control.

Finally, John washes his hands for the last time, and turns to Sherlock with a fresh glass of water and his antibiotic pills. He helps Sherlock dress and they're back into their usual state of companionable silence.

“I want you to eat a little porridge and then turn in. It's almost nine. Go rest on the sofa and I'll bring it to you.”

Sherlock does as he's told, and he actually dozes off while waiting for John. John has drenched the oats in butter and plenty of sugar. It tastes like heaven to Sherlock. John sits with him while he eats and then forces him to drink a large glass of milk. Sherlock is drowsy enough to fall asleep on the couch but John helps him to the bedroom.  

"You're gonna sleep down here, okay? We'll see about the bedrooms when you're better, but for now there's no point you walking up extra stairs. Plus, I want to have you near me when I'm down here."

Sherlock just nods, his body heavy with exhaustion. He lets himself be led into the room and gently guided into the bed and then John is covering him with the duvet and about to leave and Sherlock panics.

"Please, don't leave," he says. "Just until I fall asleep?"

"Yeah, all right," John says, smiling warmly. "Just let me fetch my book, yeah?"

Sherlock hovers between wakefulness and sleep until John comes back with his book. As soon as John settles into the bed, under the duvet, Sherlock feels peace wash over him for the first time in almost two years. Sleep quickly claims him.

~*~

As soon as Sherlock has fallen asleep, John eases himself out of bed. He picks his phone up where he left it on the table beside his chair and dials Gerald's number.

"Hello, gorgeous," Gerald says when he answers the phone. "Miss me already?"

"Sherlock is alive," John says, the words coming out breathlessly. They feel so good to say, too.

"What? How?" Gerald asks.

"Remember the criminal I told you about, Moriarty?"

"Yeah."

"Well, apparently he had a sniper on me, Lestrade, and Mrs. Hudson and people watching the roof of St. Bart's and if they didn't see Sherlock jump, then the snipers had orders to kill us."

"Oh, my god! Are they still out there? Are you safe?" Gerald asks, his voice wobbly.

"I think that's why he's been gone. He’s been working with his brother, that _bastard_ —Mycroft, not Sherlock—and I guess they've been tracking down all of Moriarty's people. I didn't want to overwhelm him with too many questions. He's um, banged up pretty badly. He said he was captured in Serbia. Looks like he was kept in some kind of compound and wherever he was, they obviously didn't follow the Geneva conventions for the treatment of prisoners. He’s been through hell,” John says, his voice hitching on the last word. Tears come quickly and he tries to quell them, but only manages partly to do so. “For now I have him in my room. He's got a long recovery ahead of him. I'm not going to be able to get out much for a couple of weeks and I'm not sure it's a good idea for him to be around strangers right now. I hate for you and I to be apart for so long, but—”

"Oh, my darling, please don't worry about that. I'm so sorry. Can I help? Is there anything I can do?"

For several moments John can't speak. When, at last, he does, it's with a voice heavy with responsibility.

"Thank you, love," John says, sighing with gratitude. "You are far too good to me."

"Only because you have a big dick," Gerald says and John laughs.

"I think you win the big dick contest, dirty bastard."

"Stop talking about how big my dick is ‘cause you're making my big dick get even bigger."

"What are you, fourteen years old?" John laughs. He's grateful for the laughter and he knows that's why Gerald has done it.

There's silence for a moment as the weight of the truth settles over them.

"How are you feeling about all this, then?" Gerald asks. "I mean, are you—it's quite a feat he's pulled. Are you angry?"

"Yeah, but. I mean, he's _back_ , Gerald. He's not quite the Sherlock Holmes I knew, but I think that's just because of what he's been through."

"And, uh, your feelings about him, are they—never mind. God, I already sound like a jealous git."

"Oh, Gerald. What I felt for him was so long ago. I've known you for a year and I love you and you have nothing to worry about."

"I know, I know. Just—forget I said anything. I know you love me."

"I do. Very much so. Do you think you can come by tonight—I know it's late—but can you come pick up two prescriptions I wrote for him and drop them off at the chemist's? There's one on your way home that's open all night. I can pick them up tomorrow. I'll need to get some stuff from the shops anyway. I don't have much here for us to eat. You've spoiled me, always cooking."

"I can pick up the prescriptions tomorrow morning and I'll pick up what you need from the shops, too. Write a list for me. I'll grab it when I get there. Okay?"

"Thank you, love," John says.

"For you, darling, anything. I'll see you in a bit, then. Love you."

"Love you, too," John says and ends the call.

He turns around and yelps when he sees Sherlock standing in the kitchen looking slightly dazed.

"Jesus _Christ_ , Sherlock, you startled me!"

"Who were you talking to?" Sherlock asks flatly, his expression unreadable. He's sweating, and it's soaked through his t-shirt under the arms and across his chest.

"My, uh, my friend," John says. "Here, let's get you into a fresh t-shirt. Come on."

"You left," Sherlock says accusingly. He looks so vulnerable, his face frowning in confusion. Betrayal flashes in his eyes.

"It was just a few minutes, Sherlock. I needed to ask him if he could come by to pick up the scripts I wrote for you. He's going to drop them off at the chemist's. Now, c’mon, let's go get you into a clean t-shirt."

Sherlock allows himself to be led back in the bedroom where John sits him on the bed and then rummages in Sherlock's duffel bag for another t-shirt. Sherlock spreads his legs and John steps in between them without even thinking. He pulls the shirt over Sherlock's head first and then guides Sherlock's arms gently through the sleeves.

The whole time, Sherlock watches him closely, like he's looking for something in John's face he can't find or maybe he sees something he doesn't understand. When Sherlock's arms are through, he doesn't tug the hem down the rest of the way, so John bends and does it for him.

Sherlock's head falls forward onto John's shoulder and then he turns his face into John's neck, his lips pressing against the curve where neck meets shoulder. His arms come up to grasp John who puts his hands on Sherlock's arms, unable to hug back because of the mess of Sherlock's back.

"Sh," John says, rubbing Sherlock's arms up and down. "You're home."

One of Sherlock's hands travels lower and splays against John's back, right above the curve of his backside. The other hand ends up behind John's neck. Sherlock scoots forward on the bed, and John stiffens in his arms.

Sherlock's lips are suddenly resting right behind John's ear.

"I missed you," he whispers.

"I—I missed you, too," John says nervously. "Um, why don't you lie down on your right side here. See if you can get back to sleep?"

"No," Sherlock mumbles.

His lips travel from John's ear down to his jaw, to his throat where they rest against John's carotid.

"Your heart rate is elevated," Sherlock murmurs.

"Well, yes, I'm very—it's, um, good to have you home."

Sherlock seems to accept this explanation at first and pulls back slightly, but only to slide his lips back along John's jaw to his chin where Sherlock's tongue darts out and strokes the dimple in the middle.

John can't help the sharp inhalation of breath, nor the way his heart seems to flutter in his chest, nor the tingling in his fingertips, the warmth that seems to bubble up from his chest, his spine, the tops of his thighs. His groin. Even as John tells his body not to react, Sherlock yanks John against him and John makes a noise that's supposed to be _stop_ but comes out something like _stahhh._

For someone who's been malnourished and subjected to torture for a month, Sherlock is surprisingly strong and when John wiggles slightly to get out of his arms, he just tightens his hold. Then Sherlock crashes his lips into John's and the hand that was above his arse slides over it and then grips it, _squeezes_ it. Desire unfurls low in John's body and blood rushes to fill his prick. He groans, half from pleasure and half from the frustration of not being able to get out of Sherlock's arms without hurting him physically _and_ emotionally. Clearly, Sherlock is confused, and John needs to convey that ASAP.

But then Sherlock widens his thighs even further and uses the hand cupping John's arse to pull them closer together. John can feel the hard line of Sherlock's erection against his thigh, and Sherlock is almost _undulating_ himself against John. Sherlock moans against John's lips and before John can form a clear plan of action, Sherlock shoves his tongue into John's mouth.

The kiss—if it can be called a kiss—is sloppy and wet and completely fueled by hunger with no thought for technique. John  hesitates and then kisses him back, knowing he'll regret it. He allows himself sixty seconds to enjoy it.

Because the truth is John wants Sherlock badly. He's known that all along. But John has a boyfriend, a _partner_ , really, and he can't throw that away for a messy night of snogging with his once-dead best friend. Especially since said best friend is probably a bit tipsy from pain medication and doesn't know what he's doing.

_You can't turn him away now, not when he's so vulnerable_

That's not true, he knows it's not, and he needs to find a way to stop this train wreck. He wrenches his mouth away from Sherlock's.

“Sherlock, I can't,” John says, breathing hard.

Sherlock's hand that was cupping his neck now moves down to cup John's half-hard penis. The touch of Sherlock's hand through the thin fabric of John's pajama bottoms galvanizes John's body into action. In just a few seconds, John is fully hard and Sherlock takes that as invitation to begin stroking John through the fabric. John grips Sherlock's wrist with the thought to pull Sherlock's hand away, but Sherlock isn't budging. The hand that was cupping John's arse slips _inside_ John's bottoms while John is trying to deal with the hand on his straining erection.

"Jesus, _fuck_ , Sherlock," John says.

Sherlock grips John tighter and starts stroking up and down through the fabric.

“Does it feel good? I want you to feel good,” Sherlock says, his voice so low it's almost a whisper.

Sherlock sticks a finger in his mouth and licks and sucks on it and then he shoves that hand into the back of John's pajamas and begins rubbing his saliva soaked finger against John's entrance.  

John has moved beyond alarmed and into a sort of horrified arousal. Sherlock suffered sexual assault, and John doesn't want to give Sherlock the impression that he himself feels assaulted, but it's beginning to feel _exactly_ like that. Unfortunately, John's body is perfectly happy to be assaulted and Sherlock takes that as full consent.

"Sherlock, you're confused. We need to stop," John says, trying to keep his voice calm and steady, and failing miserably.

"I'm not confused. Kiss me," Sherlock demands.

John shakes his head, and keeps it turned away, lest Sherlock's mouth latch onto his again, although the temptation to kiss him is intense. Sherlock kisses John's throat instead and John groans Sherlock's name.

"Sherlock, I don't—this isn't how I—" John whimpers, rapidly losing control over his body.

“Just this once, please, let me have this,” Sherlock says.

Sherlock's forehead rests against John's stomach and he reaches into John's bottoms and his nimble fingers wrap around the base of John's shaft and then slide up. His fingertips tug John's foreskin up and down over his glans before sliding down and then back up again, thumb stroking over the slit, fingers dragging his foreskin back and forth. John knows that if he doesn't intervene soon, he's going to come and this is a problem. This is a _big_ fucking problem. The scope of this problem is world-ending.

John wraps his hands around Sherlock's biceps and squeezes hard enough that it should hurt, and tries to push Sherlock away, but Sherlock doesn't budge. He doesn't want to _shove_ Sherlock away, because then he'll land on his back and John is still trying to keep that in mind while also keeping his hips from bucking up into Sherlock's fist while _also_ keeping his mouth away from Sherlock's mouth.

"Please, Sherlock, _fuck_ ," John says, digging fingers into the backs of Sherlock's arms.

He doesn't know if he's begging Sherlock to stop or to stroke him harder. It's breathtaking and terrifying all at once. Six hours ago, he didn't even know Sherlock was alive and now Sherlock is giving him a handjob. He kisses Sherlock without even knowing he meant to.

"I know you want to come, John, I can feel it building in your body. Let it go. I want to _feel_ you come,” Sherlock says in that deep voice made rough with lust, and more than a hint of desperation,

Sherlock's right, about John's orgasm building inside him. Sherlock kisses John again.

"You're _mine_ ," Sherlock groans into John's throat. "It never should've been him."

Sherlock's voice trembles, his hand slows, and John's orgasm thankfully recedes. Sherlock's voice shivers with vulnerability and the naked longing makes John's throat close up.

"I just need to—" Sherlock continues, his breath catching on the words. "I know I can make you feel—does he make you feel like this? Because I can, too. I know you want me, John. I've known that for two years. I want you to love me, too."

"I _do_ love you, of course I do, Sherlock, you know that, and yes, I want—I mean you, you're beautiful, you're gorgeous, it's just, this isn't how we should— _oh, Jesus_ —"

Sherlock ignores John's words and takes up his assault on John's cock again, bringing him with skilled efficiency towards the edge of orgasm and John whispers Sherlock's name, and Sherlock just murmurs the same thing over and over in John's ear. _Please come for me, John, do it for me. Please come, let me hear it, come, John, please_.

John's no longer using his grip on Sherlock's biceps to push him away and is, instead, holding on for dear life and then Sherlock's thumb circles John's slit, then rubs underneath his glans against the frenulum and John comes. Momentarily color and light burst behind his eyelids, which are squeezed shut, and John thinks of Gerald coming to fetch the prescriptions, of making love to him earlier in this bed, Gerald sweet and pliant beneath him. Sherlock has—has _commandeered_ John's body, taking without asking just as he always has, and he's done it _here_ , in the bed John and Gerald have shared and it's not fair because this was never supposed to happen. John made peace with that six months ago standing at Sherlock's grave with an empty baggie in his hand.

All the emotion thickens in John's throat and then bursts from his mouth in a heaving sob. His eyes water and even though he keeps his eyes squeezed shut, a few tears drop onto his cheeks and lips and he's dimly aware of hearing Sherlock say _I'm sorry, John, I'm so sorry_ and then Sherlock lets him go and John stumbles backwards, tucking himself back into his bottoms before he flees the former sanctuary of his bedroom and up the back stairs into his old room where he drops to the edge of the bed, shivering, waiting for Gerald, staring at the wall across the room, fat tears rolling out of his eyes and dripping onto his shaking hands.

~*~

When the buzzer rings, John comes out of his fog with a start. He wipes his face on the hem of his t-shirt and makes sure there's no semen on his hands or bottoms. Then he rushes down the outside stairs to the front door and pulls it open.

"Oh, my sweet boy, you look absolutely _shattered_ ," Gerald says with sympathy.

John feels like his infidelity is burned onto his skin and clothes, that Gerald should be able to smell it on him, and braces for a slap. But instead, Gerald just cups John's face and kisses his cheek.

"Do you have the list? And the prescriptions?" Gerald asks.

"The prescriptions?" John asks, his brain hazy. "Oh, God, let me get them. Do you want to come up?"

"No, best stay here for now," Gerald says with a smile and tilts his head towards the window of the first floor. John steps out onto the pavement and sees Sherlock standing at the front window, watching them. He doesn't bother moving away when he sees them looking up and Gerald gives him a friendly little wave and John's heart fractures into a thousand pieces, the pain leaving him gasping.

"I'll just stay right inside the door. Go on, then, the meter's ticking," Gerald says and gives him a pointed look before playfully smacking John's rear.

John doesn't want to see Sherlock so he goes up the stairs to the kitchen door, grabs the prescriptions off the table. Then he's back down the stairs to the entryway and handing them to Gerald.

"I'll have to text you the list of the stuff I need from the shops, I didn't have a chance—I've not—"

"That's fine, sweetheart. I'll drop it all off around noon. So have it to me by say, ten tomorrow morning? Good. Love you!"

With a kiss on the cheek, Gerald is gone, climbing into the cab and shutting the door. John closes the front door and locks it. Then he works his way slowly, reluctantly, up the stairs to the flat. He pauses on the landing outside the sitting room but then, because he just can't, he _cannot_ face any more today, he is just _done the fuck in_ , he keeps going up the stairs to his old room. He digs a fitted sheet and blanket out of the closet, smelling dusty, but clean and makes up the bed. He turns off the overhead light and then slips into bed in the dark, knowing he's not going to be able to sleep, not after all that's happened.

He drops almost instantly to sleep, his mind a ruin.

~*~

**Author's Note:**

> Everyone say, "Thank you, Jenn!" She is my researcher, cheerleader, editor and personal fangirl. She soothes the ruffled feathers of my writerly ego and sends me down rabbit holes to challenge my notions of "good fiction." (So it's her fault if it takes me a month to post the next episode in this series). She's everything you might want in a beta reader _and_ a friend
> 
> Email me at archiveofMYown@gmail.com to be added to my "Your Daily Dose of Johnlock Porn" mailing list where I share fan art of John and Sherlock in compromising positions.  
> You can also email me just 'cause. I answer every email I get!


End file.
